The Best Damn Drunkards in the Galaxy (open)

[Bette Davis]

She finally got her feet underneath her, but didn't mind letting Brand continue to try to hold her up. "My turn yet?" Bette laughed, reluctantly releasing Mike to let him return to the game.

[Sergeant Michael Brand]

Brand winced again as he straightened up. If he drank another shot or two, he wouldn't hurt anymore. That sounded like a better idea than bending over the pocketballs table for the next half-hour.

"Nah, it's, uh... halftime," he replied. "Time to refill. I can't be expected to beat you two on an empty glass, huh?"

He nodded back down toward the bar.

"What brings you two to Cloud City, anyway? I mean, vacation... but it's a little outa the way for most, far as I kinow. 'Specially Imps."

[Bette Davis]

"Well, you're here." Bette abandoned the cue stick and casually looped her arm through Brand's. "I've never known a vacation spot to be too far away for the very... determined. 'Sides, what else am I supposed to do with a week of leave?"

They walked arm in arm to the bar that was on the second floor, and Bette brightened as a thought struck her. "Say, you aren't in a hotel with a pool, are you?"

[Sergeant Michael Brand]

Brand pullled a grimace. "If there is a pool, chances are we'll have to fish a dead mynock out of it..."

It took a moment for the significance of Bette's arm to imprint itself on Brand's soused mind. The five neurons that were still awake got together in a huddle and decided they liked it. Sure, you could say she wasn't quite his type -- a flygirl, after all, and an Imperial, too, for that matter. But she seemed different. Brand could easily imagine her in the trenches beside him with an A-280 propped against her shoulder, her hair singed and her face smeared with soot and sweat.

Frell, that was a strong image. Another two drinks and he'd be believing in it.

He eased himself onto a barstool, still leaning very close to his newfound drinking companion. "Bespin was just far enough for me. Open sky above you. And below you." He laughed un-self-consciously. "But I needed to get to the city. Spent too much time out-doors lately."

He slapped the bartop to get the 'tender's attention.

[Bette Davis]

Too much time out doors? Bette tried to remember the last time she'd been on a planets surface, and couldn't come up with anything. But with enough time, she was sure she'd think of something. Not that she was agoraphobic or anything. Agoraphobic. Was that right? Angoraphobic. She started snickering at her clever play with words.

The bartender came over, leaning on the bar. "What can I get for you, gentles?" He wasn't quite human, but she couldn't place what species he was.

"Something clear and strong." Bette set a credit chit on the bar. "Surprise me."

As Brand ordered, she turned sideways on her barstool, carefully, and leaned her elbow on the bar. "So, what is it you do, Mike?"

[Sergeant Michael Brand]

"I'll take what she's getting. And make it a double," Brand quickly chipped in.

He offered Bette a competetive smirk as he turned in his barstool to face her. Ah... now, this was a vacation.

And then she turned sideways with her elbow on the bartop and asked, "So, what is it you do, Mike?"

"I'm a fightin' man," he replied. "Groundpounder. Simplest job in the galaxy. Some uniform tells you where the enemy is, and you just point and shoot."

The barkeep returned with two glasses of something -- Brand wrapped his hand around the taller of the two. "I tell you... it's been nine kinds of hell in the last coupla months. Ever since Endor..."

[Bette Davis]

"Tell me about it." Bette put her glass to her lips and drank over half of her drink before setting it back down. "Supposed to be th' elite, but we got shot all to pieces over that frellin' moon. Lost a lotta good pilots."

Something hardened in her eyes at the memory, and she finished off her drink and asked for another. They said alchohol wasn't the answer, but it sure as hell could help you forget the questions.